Pour Toujours, Beetch
by JumpinPopTarts
Summary: Christophe and Gregory bicker in a hotel room, 'fun' ensues. gosh that sounds so perverted! T for swears and boyxboy. Oneshot.


**Pour Toujours, Beetch**

_**Boredom+ Revision Procrastination = South Park and Boylove!**_

_Hope y'all enjoy! __**Leave me a note**__ if you liked it/hated it/have a request/are bored too etc!_

_(btw, I'm not actually French, nor am I particularly good at French, so I apologise in advance for errors- Translations are at the end of the chapter!)_

_xJPTx_

_**WARNINGS: BOYLOVE, FRENCH SWEARS AND COPIOUS USE OF THE F-WORD. KTHX.**_

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"So, are you listening or what?" Gregory asked for the eighth time that evening, stretching so that his slender arms draped across the sofa. "...Mole?" Again, no answer.

He sighed (Typical fucking French.) and spread his legs out in front of him, trying to toe off his black combat boots without undoing the laces. They must've gone over a hundred miles today, hitchhiking and walking, and his body hurt like a bitch.

The left boot came off without a struggle, the weight of it igniting a small plan, like a match, in his tired brain. In one fluid motion, Gregory plucked up the boot and lobbed it across their shabby hotel room. It sailed in a wide arc, spinning, and slapped Christophe square between the shoulders.

The effect, it must be said, was explosive.

"Ah SHEET! What ze FUK is you doeen, leetle _beetch_?!"

"Getting you to fucking listen! I've been trying to talk to you for an hour!"

"And vhy should I leesten to you, _petit bâtard?" _Christophe spat, his eyes gleaming like coals from the shadow of the bed._ "__J'en ai marre de toi! __Ta voix, ton visage, tes _questions_ ! Tout le temps, les questions ! Je ne peux __plus les supporter ! __Je ne peux __plus _te_ supporter! »_

Gregory yawned widely and wriggled out of his other boot. The left boot sailed back towards him, missing completely. It smashed into the wall behind instead, knocking the packets of complimentary (and stale) digestive biscuits from their shelf by the dressing table. Gregory raised an eyebrow and smothered another yawn. On the road with The Mole, fights like this were so common he was beginning to think of them as friendly bonding sessions.

Not that they needed any of those, of course.

"Oh quit it 'tophe. You know I don't do French."

"You fuking do." Christophe growled, looking more thunderous than ever. He had, however, extracted himself from his shadowy little corner, so that was progress. "_Je t'avais vu. _You speek like ze natives ven you air on ze missions. Betair zan _me_, for fuk's zake."

"Not my fault I'm the brains in this outfit."

"Ees not my fault I am ze _brawn_, and zat I can keek zat preety Breetish arse of yours." Gregory's eyebrow twitched again; pretty eh? Now _that _was interesting.

Carefully, with a slow-burning smile on his lips, Gregory slid off of the sofa and made his way across the room to the bed, where Christophe lay propped up against the headboard, a cigarette crushed between his yellow fingers.

"Pretty, am I?" he purred.

Christophe's eyes flicked sideways, staring at the tatty curtains as though he hadn't noticed Gregory's approach. The nervous suck on the cigarette gave it away though, and the sudden tautness in the lines of his body. Every muscle was coiled and ready, curved inwards like a spring, like a panther in its cage.

Gregory's grin widened as he dropped onto the bed, moving slowly to make sure Christophe had plenty of time to savour his approach, to smell his warm skin, it see it glow, half-luminous, in the nighttime gloom.

"_Laisse-moi tranquille_." The object of his interest muttered. Another suck on the cigarette. It had gone out some minutes ago. Gregory wondered if he'd noticed.

Still Christopher's eyes were blank, like two dark holes in his handsome face. But as he crawled closer, Gregory felt the muscles of his partner's body ripple, a low, unconscious purr rising up within him. The smell of cigarettes, earth and leather filled his nostrils. Gregory's pulse quickened.

Even now, after all these months, Christopher's scent alone could make his blood burn.

"Leave you alone?" Gregory murmured, his voice making the air hum between them. Static fizzed, like fire, like lightening, through their bodies. Slowly, Gregory lowered his head, his loose blonde curls tumbling around his face. He was poised right above Christophe now, holding himself so that they were nose to nose, their chests only inches apart.

The hair on Christophe's forearms lifted. He took in a breath and forgot to close his lips. His dark eyes, once so blank, were now boring into Gregory's, the hunger in them so deep and dark that Gregory was sure he would fall into it if he looked too long.

But he was a secret agent, and had far more self-control than that.

"…Well, if you insist." He said, lightly, as though it mattered little, and made to roll away-

Christophe moved so fast that he couldn't help squeak in surprise. A burly arm caught him by the waist, knocking his own arms away so that he collapsed down, laughing, onto the mercenary's chest. Christophe's other arm wrapped around his back to hold him there, squeezing him tight.

Gregory's head was pressed to the Mole's chest now, his blonde curls tucked under his chin. After making sure Gregory wasn't planning on running away any time soon, Christophe relaxed a little and his hands began to roam, exploring the contours of that slender back, his dark fingers sinking into the halo of golden hair.

"Why, 'tophe!" Gregory cried out in mock surprise, despite the silly grin plastered over his face. "And there was me thinking we were no longer friends!"

Christophe growled and decided to shut him up with a kiss. It lasted several minutes, involved a lot of wandering hands and proved very effective indeed. At last, swollen-lipped and breathless, he pulled away and murmured again into Gregory's hair.

"'_Désolée_." He whispered. "Zeez Meesions make me _trop stressé_, and I am seek of zees Amairican beetches trying to tell us vot ve must do all ze time."

"It's life though." Gregory told him (after a few steadying breaths) "There'll be 'beetches' everywhere. England, France, America…as long as they're bitches with big wallets, we'll have to deal with them."

"As you say." Christophe shrugged, combing his fingers once more through Gregory's hair. "Beetches are everywhere." The fingers moved from Gregory's hair to the back of his neck, then round to his chin, tilting it upward so that their lips hovered together again, their breaths mingling, soft, in the warm air. "And you, _you _air ze vorst beetch of zem all." Cradled in his arms, Gregory allowed himself a small smile as he leaned down towards Christophe, whispering against his lips.

"Love you too, _ma petite pouffiasse_."

"…_pour toujours_, beetch."

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_Translations:_

_"J'en ai marre de toi! Ta voix, ton visage, tes _questions_ ! Tout le temps, les questions ! Je ne peux __plus les supporter ! __Je ne peux __plus _te_ supporter! » - _I'm sick of you! Your voice, your face, your_ questions_! All the time, questions! I can't stand them anymore! I can't stand _you_ anymore!

_Je t'avais vu- _I've seen you

_Laisse-moi tranquille- _Leave me alone

_Désolée- _Sorry

_ma petite pouffiasse- _My little bitch [I made this feminine DELIBERATELY :) ] It actually doesn't translate exactly as bitch but it's the equivalent, according to sensagent. com

_pour toujours- _Forever

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_*click* ....?_


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